I am not afraid or ashamed to admit that I like makeup. I dye my hair. I get excited about a new pair of shoes. I have had a syringe or two of Botox in my brow. I suppose I may be judged shallow and vain, but I don’t define myself by my exterior. These are things I do for me, not for the rest of the world. I get to decide what makes me happy when I get up and look in the mirror. I don’t delude myself into thinking that my looks are all that I have to offer. What I have to offer is infinitely more rich and soulful than my appearance. What I have to offer is not something you can find in a mirror, a bottle, or a syringe. The message I choose to send to the young woman I raised is that a woman gets to choose how she festoons herself and that it is okay for her to choose what makes her happy.
In the final analysis, we are not defined by our exterior, but by our character. We can wrap ourselves up however we like, with wrinkles or not, rouged or au naturel, but it’s all just wrapping. If we truly want to shift the dialogue and the zeitgeist, these are the questions we should be asking: How do you move through the world? What do you value in yourself and others? What do you have to offer to the conversation? What gets you excited to jump out of bed every morning and hit the ground running? How do you treat other people?
We can’t get to those questions when we’re too busy dismissing each other on the basis of our appearance.
You are no more special or exceptional because you choose to embrace gravity than you are if you choose to defy it. Life is too short to take any of it too seriously. Every woman should do what makes her happy. Regardless of how we feel about it, the rest of us gals should mind our own damn business. We define ourselves, the world does not define us. If you choose to be offended or angry because of how another woman chooses to look, that’s something for you to explore. What is the source of your anger? In what way do the choices other women make about how they present themselves affect you? Perhaps you’re projecting your own insecurities about aging on her. If so, maybe it’s time to make peace with getting older and make room for other women to age in the manner they please. I bet you’ll feel a lot happier if you do.
No Chiskers for Old Women
I have asked my family for one small favor. No matter how old I am, how infirm I might become, or how little I recall, please, for the love of all things holy, do not let my chiskers grow into long chin hairs. Grab the tweezers and pluck those fuckers. Pluck every last one of them. Even if they show up overnight in clusters of 10, banish them from my face. I cannot stand the thought of lying there in a hideous hospital gown, coif askew, with a thin dribble of drool dripping from the corners of my mouth into a mini-forest of chin hairs. I hate them with a passion that is almost as intense as my hatred of mayonnaise and cellulite. If you wish to grow your chiskers long, braid them, bead them, display them proudly—that’s none of my damn business. I intend to remain chisker-free until the bitter end. No chiskers for this old woman. Not now, not ever.
Pluck it, I’m 50!
Hello, Gorgeous!
. . . is what I say to my reflection in the mirror every morning.
Is that so wrong?
There is a fair amount of squinting that precedes this proclamation. I am somewhat ashamed to admit this, because, for fuck’s sake, I’m a grown-ass woman and I need to learn to let go of the need to feel pretty. Also, I look damn good, even without squinting, from the right angle, with the proper lighting, and after a good night’s rest and a sufficient amount of moisturizer, unless I shove a magnifying mirror at my face, then all bets are off.
My daughter took our magnifying mirror with her to college and I’ve been using a little 10x compact mirror since. A magnifying mirror helps with things like applying liquid liner, attaching false eyelashes, filling in eyebrows, or plucking random hairs. I need to remove my glasses to perform these tasks, and without them—and magnification—I can’t see for shit. One of the cool things about being over 50 is that random hairs sprout overnight in all manner of strange places. Then we play the game I call find that random hair! Even more fun, random hairs seem to enjoy sprouting in groups. So, it’s more like, find those random hairs! Huzzah!
I have a very good pair of tweezers. They were a considered purchase. After several years of deliberation and frustration with a mediocre pair of tweezers, I took the plunge. Fair warning, good tweezers are sharp, so a magnifying mirror is important to avoid plucking your skin with the hairs. Trust me when I tell you, this is painful.
This leads me to yesterday, when I decided it was high time I replaced my errant magnifying mirror. I perused a panoply of choices in the beauty aisle at a big-box retailer. I settled on a swiveling silver model. Then I spied, with my little eye, the number and letter combo 12x on a sticker emblazoned on a smaller mirror.
12x?! What? They make such a thing?
Dare I pick this 12x magnifying mirror up and look into it?
I dared.
This was followed by a horrified gasp as I realized the proliferation of random hairs was far worse than my 10x mirror had led me to believe. Damn you, 10x mirror! How could you let me wander around with a plethora of whiskers jutting defiantly from my crater-sized pores? What the hell is wrong with you?
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the biggest lying liar of them all?
You are, bitch.
We’re finished. Kindly pack up your belongings and get out. You’ve been replaced by my new best frenemy, 12x mirror. This morning, I spent the better part of ten minutes canoodling with my new frenemy, tweezers in hand. I’m pleased to report that a shocking number of previously elusive random hairs met their untimely demise.
This is my life, now. I have come to accept it. The hair thing is not going to improve. In the grand cosmic scheme, the indignities of aging most definitely beat the alternative. Still, it makes me feel better to battle back the ravages of time even if I can’t keep them from advancing. I don’t like random hairs and I’ll be damned if I will let them win.
Pluck it, I’m 50.
Old, Fat, and Over It
For the past few years, I’ve been occasionally referring to myself as old and fat. I was joking, but not really. It was a defense mechanism. The truth is, I felt old and fat, so I deflected my unhappiness about my age and weight with vaguely witty, self-effacing comments. It wasn’t funny and it wasn’t sending a good message to my daughter.
You become what you think. Your words have power. Old and fat—they’re just words. But words can be weapons.
Sometimes the deepest wounds are the ones we inflict on ourselves. As we age, in a world that demands that women be young, pretty, and thin, it’s not surprising that women over 50 and over size 8 feel old, fat, and unattractive. Even in the older fashion blogger community, the popular ladies are super-model thin and pretty. It is fashion, after all, and fashion prefers the young, thin, and pretty.
I was talking with my hairdresser recently and she was bemoaning the fact that the men who run the hair color company she works with insist on only featuring young, slender models in their advertising and hair shows. She’s asked repeatedly to feature a wider variety of women, especially since a majority of women who color their hair are older. They’ve balked at her request. Do you hear a recurring theme? Men seem compelled to tell women what they want.
A multibillion-dollar industry is built on and fueled by our insecurities as women. It’s a vicious cycle, designed to erode our self-confidence and dig into our bank accounts. That industry tells us from a very young age that we are not good enough and we will not be good enough unless we wear their jeans, hide our faces behind their makeup, starve our bodies into submission under their diet plan, or slather ourselves with their skin creams. Our collective unconsciousness is built around the mythology that being young, thin, and pretty is the key to happiness. That’s a powerful myth.
I was young, thin, and pretty for years, and you know what? I wasn’t happy. I felt unworthy. I still wasn’t good enough, according to that mythology. My breasts were too small, my bottom too curvy, my
skin was too pale, my hair too unruly. I look back now at photos of that girl and I am sad for her. I am sad for that smart, funny, talented, beautiful girl who felt she wasn’t good enough. She was good enough. I am good enough. Her value then and my value now have nothing to do with appearances. In the grand cosmic scheme, my age and weight are irrelevant to the totality of who I am and what I have to offer to the world. Those numbers only have the power that I give them. Those numbers, and the messages sent by giving them power, deflect attention from my real value.
I have had enough of the lie that I’m not good enough. I reject the idea that happiness can be found in a jar or a lipstick case or a new pair of jeans. I am worthy, I am beautiful, I am limitless. And you know what, my dear? So are you.
Them’s the Lumps
A (Not) Love Song for Cellulite
Though the sum of my parts is appealing,
Some of my parts send me reeling.
Can I love me enough, while not loving this stuff?
Lumps do not summon any fond feeling.
I find curves, for the record, delightful,
They’re bodacious, beguiling, not frightful.
“Lumps are curves!” some might say. I say “Send them away!”
I’m convinced their intention is spiteful.
“It’s all part of the journey, so face it.
Just accept that you cannot erase it!”
Dimples, ripples, bumps, saggy bits, and funky bumps,
Cellulite? I refuse to embrace it.
Some real women have curves, some real women do not have curves, and some real women have lumps. I currently have curves, I used to lack curves, but I have always had lumps. My lumps, which started on my butt way back when I entered puberty, have made their way toward my ankles and up toward my neck. They’ve crept all over me like poison ivy, showing up here, there, and everywhere without notice or invitation. How rude.
I have lumps on my thighs, lumps on my calves, and lumps on my stomach. I have lumps on my back, and lumps on my kneecaps.
Of all the lumps that I despise, and I despise them all, none elicits more distaste than the lumps on my upper arms. Bastards. I call this phenomenon armulite, an elision of arm and cellulite. I don’t mind curves, but for fuck’s sake what is up with the lumps?
Maybe one day I shall overcome my distaste for lumps. Probably not, but I strive.
Because I despise lumps, I cover them as much as possible. I don’t wear shorts. I don’t wear short skirts. I wear tights or leggings when I wear dresses. I wear sweaters in the middle of August. I wear cover-ups at the beach. I would not wear a bathing suit in public if you paid me. Well, it depends on how much. If we’re talking five figures, then perhaps I could be persuaded. Let’s talk. But I digress. I categorically refuse to show my upper arms in public unless there is a significant amount of money involved. This is irrational. It is absurd. It is self-defeating, especially since I’m experiencing my own personal summer 365 days a year. I hate being hot, but I hate lumps more.
Lumps trump heat.
As much as I hate lumps, I showed my upper arms to fitness guru Harley Pasternak on national TV recently. I removed my jacket, wiggled my saggy arm fat, and pointed out the armulite. This flies in the face of everything I’ve written here, I know. I thought if I showed my lumps, perhaps other lumpy women would feel a little less awful about theirs. Joan of Arc has nothing on me, baby. Harley gave me some great suggestions for exercising the lumps away, but argh—exercise? I am exhausted just thinking about it. Who has the time? I’m far too busy shopping for all-season sweaters and patterned leggings.
Dear Neck
Nora Ephron isn’t the only woman over 50 who feels bad about her neck. We all do, honey. Unless you can afford a trip to the plastic surgeon, your neck is going to give you away like Benedict Arnold.
Dear Neck,
Hello, old friend. We’ve been together for 55 years now, which is almost impossible to believe. Let me begin by assuring you that I adore you, always have. You’ve been the perfect accompaniment to the revolving array of necklaces, scarves, collars, and other adornments I’ve strewn upon you over the years. I could not have asked for a better neck unless I was Audrey Hepburn. Thank you, from the bottom of my jawbone to the top of my collarbone, thank you.
The thing is, though, lately you’ve changed. Quite frankly, I’m not loving the new you. It started with a few creases, nothing I couldn’t overlook, but then the sagging began. It’s progressed with alarming rapidity. I catch it randomly in my reflection when the light is just right, or, more aptly, just wrong. “No, no, no, no, what is that?!” It’s really, really making me sad.
Ugh, this is hard.
I have tried slathering you with rich creams saturated with a heady combination of empty promises and the stem cells of rare exotic plants. I have ardently practiced an increasingly complex regimen of daily neck yoga. I have soothed you with sweet words and begged you to reconsider, yet you defy my every protestation with a relentless downward march. It’s really gotten out of control, neck, and it needs to stop.
It seems we have reached an impasse that even a drawer filled with turtleneck dickies cannot solve. I’m afraid I will be forced to accept your refusal to retreat until I am able to cobble together enough funds to combat further assault. Until then, I ask only that your descent be slowed by my heartfelt vociferous protestations. And while I’m here, please inform your friends, the jowls, that they’re also on notice.
Love,
Margot
You Look Good, for Your Age
“You’re how old? Wow! You look good for your age!”
This one—this one is really insidious. It’s the ultimate backhanded compliment for the older woman. Yet, it’s generally received with giddy enthusiasm, “I do? Thank GOD!”
Holding back the ravages of time is important in a society where women over 50 are treated like pariahs. We can’t find work. We can’t find clothes. We can’t find our faces represented in traditional media. Unless we find a way to maintain a semblance of perpetual youth, we are shown the virtual door. Please make room for a younger model. Thank you. Are you still here? Disappear already, will you?
Let’s parse the “You look good for your age” compliment, shall we? It’s tricky because, on the one hand, it clearly states that “you look good.” That’s a positive, right? We all want to look good because we live in a world that is mostly driven by appearances. Looking bad won’t get you any prizes. On the other hand, can we embrace the “you look good” portion of the equation while rejecting the second half? What exactly does “for your age” mean? Does it mean that you look 5 years younger, 10 years younger, 15 percent less saggy, 25 percent less wrinkly? If you looked like this, but you were 5 or 10 years younger, would you then look bad for your age? Is there a chart somewhere we might reference?
Why are we so terrified of aging? Why aren’t we embracing the wisdom, the power, the beauty, the wonder of being alive this long and having survived this much?
Gravity, collagen depletion, and sun damage conspire to change our faces, and, as time progresses, turn us into strangers to ourselves. “Where’d that fabulous girl go and who the hell is this?,” we ask as we gaze at that old woman in the mirror. Once she’s old, who’s there to tell her that she looks good?
Then the media trots out the same collection of ageless beauties, who have the luxury of great bones and great plastic surgeons, and say, “Look at her, she looks AMAZING for her age.” As if to say, “Hey, old bag over there, what’s your excuse?” Because looking good at every age is far more important for a woman than being wise, or accomplished, or compassionate, right?
There is a definite beauty to a woman whose aging face no longer reflects impossible societal standards or the need to attract the male gaze. Our face reflects our unique life experience, the journey we take from youth to maturity. Every wrinkle, every shift in the terrain tells a story of a life lived, of adventures and heartbreaks, and triumphs and tragedies. Tha
t’s real beauty.
I am trying to navigate the shift as I age, trying to find a way to embrace the changes, instead of fearing them. I like a compliment as much as the next gal, but I want to love myself enough to let go of the need for that kind of external affirmation. My face is a canvas and life is the artist.
That’s something resonant.
That’s something magical.
That’s alchemy.
What I Learned from Having Pink Hair
I’ve been dyeing my hair since I was in my 20s. The only break I took was while I was pregnant in my mid-30s. Once I hit my mid-40s, I decided to go blonde. I love gray hair on other women, and I’m a believer in each of us doing what works for us. Gray just wasn’t going to work for my pale skin or my overall happacity. Two years ago, I went pink.
It’s funny how changing your hair color can change your life. Over the past 55 years, I have rocked virtually every color known to hair, a plethora of colors that go far beyond the natural spectrum. Black, platinum, soft-golden blonde, every shade of red from copper to magenta, blue, baby-poop green (a most unfortunate accident), orange, yellow, brown, gray . . . and finally the one color after which I have lusted since I first picked up a box of Miss Clairol oh so many moons ago. My natural hair is a most delightful shade of reddish brown, naturally imbued with streaks of blonde and red. Over the past so many years, though, it has become saltier and less pepper-y.
I had a stash of candy-colored wigs that I used to wear to special events, but they met an untimely demise after a particularly humid summer in the Smoky Mountains. While preparing to move, I discovered they’d been decimated by mold. Sad face, goodbye candy-colored wigs.
Fifty and Other F-Words Page 7
